


We, notwithstanding the darkness

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Female Protagonist, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, Míriel is sick and tired of Mandos, Post-Canon, Reference to kinslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Míriel tries to explain something to Námo</p>
            </blockquote>





	We, notwithstanding the darkness

Those who regard the tapestry agree: he looks too grand (Finwë smiles – in spite of everything – when he sees it, recognizing both his wife's hand, and his son's fiery nature as he addresses the crowd in Tirion). Fairer, and more august, than the Valar, terrible in his fury, like a bolt of lightning that rives the darkness.

One of Vairë's handmaidens relays the protest to Míriel.

“He is my son,” she laconically replies, without looking at the nameless, wan spectre, and continues aligning stitch after stitch.

The tapestry of Alqualondë is like a slap in the face for its crudity, but there is no emotion in it. It is the surgical representation of a sudden outburst of savagery. It is an accusation that spares nobody. The Ñoldor refuse to look at it. So do the Teleri. 

The ships burn and fire crackles in the threads she coils in the pitch-black of the sky.

Fëanáro burns, and it is the most splendid conflagration. 

Míriel easily attracts him to her. Námo is quick to pass judgement, but she obtains to have him beside her. Vairë is more flexible than her husband, and more practical. The other handmaidens have long stopped assisting her in her assigned work. They cannot keep up with the deftness and complexity of her embroidery; they do not like the way she handles the subjects they have to depict. 

Fëanáro's fëa is not puny, nor frail. It is fire in its purest form, and Míriel is cradled in the heat that is a caress to her (and her alone). They sit close to each other, and even though they don't know each other, there is an easy, deep, familiarity between them. Together they work, and watch their sons and grandsons.

Fëanáro has few regrets – he never shrunk from himself, or from anything else, and that alone is more than most people can claim to have accomplished – and the greatest of them is being separated from his sons (Míriel knows the despondency better than she would like to). He wants to shield and hold them, and share their burden. He would readily take Maitimo's place in Angband and on Thangorodrim. He cannot shed tears; Míriel does for both.

Námo often appears before them and insists that Fëanáro must pass in his portion of the Halls to do proper penance. 

“If you persist in refusing to acknowledge your sins, the taint on your fëa shall never be cleansed. Your tribulation shall never know reprieve,” the Doomsman balefully admonishes during one of his many visits.

Fëanáro hears Námo's words, but does not react to them. He is depicting his half-brother (he does not need hands to. In the Halls, his mind is more than enough). It is not the well-known Ñolofinwë. It is not the upright elf adulated by many. It is not the paragon of wisdom and gallantry they want. It is Ñolofinwë as Fëanáro sees him.

“He does understand his crimes. You do not,” Míriel says in the silence as thick as the dimness into which the space around them fades, only briefly glancing at the Vala's looming form. 

“It behoves him to repent and seek forgiveness,” Námo enjoins, again, seemingly surprised – but unaffected – by Míriel's rebuttal.

“And who would benefit from that? You have sentenced him to stay discarnate until the end of time. It seems an adequate enough form of expiation to me.”

“It is the only course. He has proven to be unfit to live in the Blessed Realm.”

“Unfit to live in your playground as a decoration to it, that is certain.” The emphasis Míriel puts on the words makes it clear that the same applies to her, too. That it is the reason why she has chosen to live in Vairë's Halls, with her son gone, and her friends mostly gone with him. It is an aversion that has taken root while she battled her sickness, and the rage she had felt when she had realized the true import of the sentence imposed upon her had brought her through. “A «forgive me» on his part now would not undo what he has done, would not right what he has wronged. It would only serve to gratify you.”

“He has shed the blood of his own kin, led his people to ruin, forsaken them,” Námo accuses, but it is a trite reminder, because Míriel herself has woven the scenes.

“I could level the same accusations at you, and they would not be unbefitting,” she returns.

The Vala bridles at that. “It would be preposterous, impudent.”

“It would not. Have you not abandoned Elendë and the people who dwell in it? Have you not been indifferent to their plight? Have you not led the Ñoldor to ruin, letting Moringotto free to esnare them?” Míriel says. She realizes she is ranting, but does not stop. Her speech was always quick, all the more so if something unnerved her. “It is not the shedding of elven blood that you are so upset about. If it had, you would have pursued Moringotto after he slaughtered the innocents of Formenos and Finwë who stood up to him alone in Ungoliantë's venomous cloud of lightlessness, while mighty Tulkas and Oromë and their Maiar were repelled by it like children affrighted by the heat of a candle's flame. What displeases and vexes you is the fact that one elf had the audacity to turn against you and challenge your authority, and spoil your own designs. You try to use his culpability now as leverage to obtain from him what he still believes you do not deserve: obedience and respect.”

“If he is indeed so bold, he ought to be speaking for himself, at least.”

Míriel's hands stop working and she turns to face the sombre Vala. “I believe it is clear: he does not want anything to do with you. I am talking to you in his stead out of courtesy, otherwise you would be addressing empty air, as always.”

Námo, again, pauses. The thought that Fëanáro might be deliberately ignoring him – not cowering in fear or mortification, as he had believed (and expected) – that Fëanáro looks upon him in scorn is entirely alien to him. “If that is his course, he will never have my blessing, nor my pity.” 

Míriel scoffs. A creature as devoid of empathy – so far removed from suffering – as Námo doesn't have the faintest notion of what pity is, and of what it means. “What is Finwë guilty of? Why would you have condemned him to a long stay in your Halls even had he not chosen to remain in them for my sake?”

“So I had judged.” 

The terse reply, uttered with irrevocability that accounts itself above explanations, stokes Míriel's irritation. “Then so be it,” she affirms, with a finality no less stony than the Vala's. Fëanáro, attuned to his mother's emotions, flickers and glows wildly at her side. “When you admit your mistakes and seek to redress them, we will do the same for our own.”

“Remember that you are a lesser being.” Námo does not argue any longer, simply tries to intimidate her.

“If you demand humility you should be the first one to display it.”

“Your words belie your Marring, and your wilfulness and waywardness which you passed onto your son. But you are here in my custody and under my sway, and I -”.

“What would you do? Deprive me of my body again, throw our fëar into the Void, lock us somewhere?” Míriel shouts, her hands clenched to fists. She shakes (the memory of Maitimo's torture is still too fresh in her mind). In her ire and resoluteness, she is like her son (or, more correctly, it is Fëanáro who takes after her in his temerity). “Truly you and Moringotto are of one kin. You want to see us bent to your will, you want us to docilely acquiesce to your judgement. You would punish us for not submitting to it.” 

Námo blackens and towers threateningly above her. 

Míriel stands firm.

Fëanáro, wrenched from his disregard, flares behind her, and his fëa expands to a constantly renewed waterfall of golden-liquid fire which fills the formless space. His hröa's features shine through it and he is, he is as he ever was. Námo flinches. It is a minute movement, but enough to decree his failure. 

He never tries to speak to Fëanáro again.

«I'm sorry,» Fëanáro says as soon as the Vala has disappeared. His voice is not made of sound; it sweeps through Míriel's spirit.

“What for?” 

«For...causing you trouble.»

Míriel knows that the trouble her son alludes to is more than the confrontation with Námo. “I only did what I felt I must.” She relaxes and bends over the loom again.

«Mother.»

“Yes?” Míriel says, encouragingly, as she picks up a shuttle. 

«Do you-...do you truly not regret bearing me?»

Míriel had been expecting – and dreading – that question. Even so, it is abrupt, and it puts ice in her veins. She has to take a deep breath to reply. “No.” She is glad her denial sounds as decisive as it is. “I would do it again, and again. No matter the cost, even if the whole of Eä were to be ripped apart by it.”

The ensuing pause is not long. The flame quivers briefly, and Míriel clearly perceives the relief and security her words gift to it. 

«Thank you, Mother.»

**Author's Note:**

> The reference to Finwë is based on the story in HoME X where he offers to stay in the Halls to allow Míriel to be reembodied (note that I don't believe half a syllable of their dialogue there), and Mandos tells him that he would have kept him there for a long time regardless, without giving any explanation. 
> 
> My headcanon for Fëanor's unhoused fëa is that it looks like a solar flare.


End file.
